


home at last

by WayDownWeGo



Series: need the sun to break [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Secrets are Revealed, and so the plot thickens, i just really really love old music, so of course i would find an excuse to add some into this part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:49:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9008659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayDownWeGo/pseuds/WayDownWeGo
Summary: "Actually, you’re one of the most important people in my life right now,” I say, smiling halfheartedly to myself.“You’re not making this any easier,” he mumbles, and I can hear the sound of him rubbing his hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm as it resists the pull of his skin. “I’m about to tell you so many things that are definitely going to end up being deal-breakers."





	

I’m half asleep when my phone rings on my pillow.  
“Hello?” I say groggily, stifling a yawn.  
“Did I wake you?”  
My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright in bed. “James?”  
“I woke you, didn’t I?” I can hear the remorse in his voice. I can practically see the sad puppy face that I guarantee he’s making right now.  
“No. I’ve been awake for a couple minutes. I just haven’t gotten out of bed yet. What time is it for you?”  
“Just after 17 hundred. It’s after 10 for you, right?”  
“Mhm.” I smile at his use of military terminology. “How was your day?”  
“Same old, same old. I told Mrs. Codreanu about you today.”  
“Is that the lady you help out?”  
“Yeah. She’s mad at me.”  
I laugh, “Whatever for?”  
“She’s mad I didn’t bring you over so she could meet you,” he chuckles, and I smile to myself. I can just imagine him sitting in an armchair with a roll of yarn in his lap while he crochets, and a feisty little woman sitting opposite him shaking her finger at him.  
“Next time,” I say, and he exhales.  
“Yeah. Next time.” We’re both silent for a while. “Hey, I’ll let you get on with your day. I just wanted to hear your voice.”  
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Bye.”  
“Goodbye, Emily.”

“Can I ask you something kind of important?” He asks. A few days have passed and I’m sitting in the bathtub really late one night. He’d just woken up.  
“Of course.”  
“Okay. Say one of your friends that you haven’t seen in a really long time comes back out of the blue. They used to be your best friend. But now when you see them again, it’s like they’re a completely different person. But a part of you can tell that… I don’t know. They’re still your best friend, deep down. Would you still want to talk to them?” He asks. There is a crackling noise on the other end of the line and I can faintly hear the sound of pages flipping in the background.  
“Totally. Even if they were different. Especially, then. I’d want to know what happened. If they’re doing okay.”  
“Yeah… But what if they were like, really bad. They did something unspeakable, and you knew it. What about then?”  
“Well, they were your friend a long time ago. You wouldn’t have been their best friend if you didn’t think they were a good person. They couldn’t have really changed that much deep down, you know? I’m sure they had a good reason for doing whatever they did, or thought they didn’t have a choice, or something happened and they made a mistake—you just have to give them a chance to explain themselves.”  
“But what if they don’t want to?”  
“Then I would just give them time,” I say, and he sighs again. He sounds stressed. “Is everything okay?”  
“Yeah, I’m just… I don’t know. It’s frustrating sometimes, not being able to remember.”  
“Remember what?”  
“Lots of things from the past. That concussion I got really fucked my memory up. It was pretty severe,” he says solemnly.  
“Well, I’m sure they’ll understand. Whatever you did, they’ll forgive you, James.”  
“I never said—“  
“I’m not stupid. Anyone only ever speaks in hypothetical situations when it relates to themselves.” There’s a few seconds of silence.  
“Alright. You’re right. And smart. Thank you.”  
I smile. “Anytime.”

And that’s how our conversations go for the next few months. Our phone calls started out as brief and only once or twice a week, but now I talk to him once or twice a day. We talk about how our days go, I tell him about work, about the writing projects I’m working on, the things happening in the news. He relates the stories that Mrs. Codreanu tells him to me, he tells me short anecdotes as he remembers them over time involving his friends and his days in the military (although he seems understandably hesitant to discuss some of those), and about how happy he is when he remembers something new. He even called me one day and put me on speaker so I could talk to Mrs. Codreanu myself and “meet” her. He’s become a new constant in my life that I never could have predicted, and after a while, in the moments after we hang up, I feel a little twinge of homesickness for him.

It’s just past four in the morning when my phone rings, and I immediately know something is wrong. He never calls me this early. He’d never wake me up like this if it wasn’t about something important.  
“James?” I say quickly, panic seeping into my voice.  
“Emily? I need to tell you something important. I understand if you don’t want to talk to me again after I tell you, but I need you to know.” His words are rushed and nervous and falling off of his lips almost faster than he can get them out.  
“Hey, hey, hey, relax. You’re okay. You can tell me anything, I promise. It’s okay,” I say, trying to make my voice as calming as possible. “Take a deep breath, you’re okay.”  
He inhales sharply and exhales for ten heartbeats, just like I told him to do when he starts to feel panicked. “Okay…Okay.” There’s a long pause. “I don’t know how to say this.”  
“Take your time, babe.”  
“I’m not… I’m not who you think I am,” he says slowly.  
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”  
“I mean, I am. It’s just, there’s more to me. That you don’t know about. But want to tell you if you want to hear it.”  
“Of course, James. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it. You’re important to me. Actually, you’re one of the most important people in my life right now,” I say, smiling halfheartedly to myself.  
“You’re not making this any easier,” he mumbles, and I can hear the sound of him rubbing his hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm as it resists the pull of his skin. “I’m about to tell you so many things that are definitely going to end up being deal-breakers,” he laughs morosely to himself, and I can hear the weariness in his voice.  
“Well, why don’t we wait until after you tell me to decide if that’s what they are,” I suggest, and he sighs.  
“Okay. Promise me that you’ll hear me out? They’re all pretty big things, and I just want you to hear everything I need to say before you probably hang up on me.”  
“I promise.”  
There’s another long pause and he sighs again. “I’m ninety nine years old. I’ve kind of been in cryogenic storage for most of my life.”  
I feel my jaw drop. “How…? That’s impossible…” I whisper.  
“I know, I know. There’s more.”  
“Okay,” I say, still slightly in shock and unable to fathom the first part of his confession.  
“Remember that friend that I told you about a long time ago?”  
“Yeah.”  
“His name is Steve Rogers. He’s—“  
“Captain America?” I say in disbelief.  
“Yes. My full name is—“  
“James Buchanan Barnes?”  
“Yeah. So you’ve heard of me?”  
“The entire world has heard of you. You died in like 1944, what—?”  
“I know. Even Steve thought I died in the raid. Except I didn’t. That’s when I lost my arm.”  
“What happened?”  
“Me and Steve were on a train going through the mountains on a special op. The wall of the boxcar was blown open and I flew out. I caught a hold of the side of it, and Steve was trying to reach me, but my hand slipped and I fell down the side of the mountain. When I woke up I had a metal arm and I was being experimented on by Hydra scientists… Which brings me to the next part.”  
“Oh, my god…Go on.”  
“Remember a couple years ago there was the terrorist attack involving three helicarriers that exploded and fell into the Potomac?”  
“Of course.” It was all over the news; everyone was waiting for updates on Captain America and his team members, Natasha Romanoff and Sam Wilson, as they fought a ghost of an agent known as the Winter Soldier. He’d torn off one of Sam’s mechanical wings from his suit that allowed him to fly around, which is how he got his “hero name”, Falcon. The clips from the news footage were burned into my memory.  
“Well, I was the terrorist,” he says finally. “I’m the Winter Soldier.”  
“But why? How?” I ask, in complete disbelief. The synapses in my brain feel unable to connect possibly the most deadly terrorist in the world with the compassionate and loving man I’ve come to know.  
It takes him thirty minutes to explain everything to me. How he had to get used to the strength of his new arm, his own new strength after Hydra used the same serum on him that Steve received, the torture that they put him through to gain control over his mind and free will, and everything that they made him do. They stripped him of his humanity and brainwashed him into a personal attack dog. They had turned him into one of the most deadly men on the planet. They’d even used him to infiltrate the KGB, and then S.H.I.E.L.D….which was what the fiasco a couple years was about. Thankfully, that was the last time that James was “used.” Steve had broken him out of the spell, and James realizing that Steve was telling the truth about his true identity is what motivated him to rescue Steve from drowning in the river.  
But being frozen and unfrozen according to how useful you are to people as evil as Hydra? How could anyone withstand such abuse? The fact that he survived at all, much less with his personality intact, despite how buried it was… is a miracle.  
“James, I’m so sorry,” I say softly, wiping tears from my cheeks, and he sighs.  
“You can call me Bucky.”  
“Bucky,” I repeat, testing the unfamiliar name out on my lips.  
“How can you not be mad?” He asks, disbelief clear in his tone.  
I take a deep breath. “Because. I know you. You’re not that… ruthless machine. It’s not you. They put that into you. You’re kind. You’re caring. You’re everything that the Winter Soldier isn’t. And I think deep down you know that, because you wouldn’t have told me about this if you didn’t think I wouldn’t believe you.”  
“You’re too good to me,” he whispers, relief flooding his voice.  
“I came to Bucharest to learn more about myself and find out who I really am. Instead, I helped you find yourself, and after a few weeks talking with you, you did the same for me. You mean the world to me, Bucky. You’re not the same Bucky that you used to be, it seems, but you’re not Winter or ‘James’ either. Everything that you’ve gone through, it’s all a part of who you are now, and I want to help you keep a hold on who that is. You more than anyone deserve to be happy. I want to help you,” I say reassuringly. I hear a muffled sniffle on the other end of the line and I know he’s crying.  
“Emily, I love you,” he says, keeping his voice from breaking. I feel my heart burst with love and adoration for this man who’d survived against all odds, and I know that I feel the same way.  
“I love you, James,” I admit, feeling tears pricking at the back of my eyes.  
There is a long period in which neither of us say anything, but I know he’s still there because I can hear his ragged breathing as it eventually slows and he calms down again.  
“Are you gonna be okay?” I ask.  
“Yeah.” Then, more confidently, “Yes. Thank you.” His voice is stronger, no longer shaky.  
“Please call me again tomorrow,” I plead, suddenly irrationally afraid that he would never speak to me again now that’s he’s spilled his secret.  
“Of course.”  
“Goodnight. Bucky.” I hear him huff out a breath and I can practically see the weak smile that must surely be on his face right now.  
“Sweet dreams.”

The next few weeks come and go rather quickly, now that there isn’t this looming, ominous withholding-of-knowledge hanging between the two of us. He tells me what he can about everything that he remembers: how he learned Russian through the KGB, the different kinds of weapons he used to carry, what he carries on him now in case of emergencies (a black COP .357 Derringer and a Gerber Mark II combat knife). How he’s on the run from anyone who might recognize him, friend or foe. And my heart continues to ache for the man estranged from me, yet whom I love unconditionally. However, I notice that during our phone calls, he’s begun to sound restless.  
“Are you sure you’re okay, Buck?” I prod, knowing that something has to be up with him. He’s never this distracted.  
“Yeah.”  
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”  
“I’m sorry.”  
I sigh. “Tell me.”  
“I would, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I just feel like… I don’t know, like something is about to happen. Something bad. I can feel it in my gut,” he confesses.  
I feel the air slowly escaping my lungs. “Come to me.” The words come out of me before I’m even aware the thought had crossed my mind.  
“Absolutely not,” he retorts immediately. He actually sounds offended.  
“Why the hell not?”  
“I’m not putting you in danger.”  
“That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been through the presidential election of 2016.”  
“Well, you’re going to have to deal with it. I’m not changing my mind.”  
“Fuck you,” I spit, and he sighs.  
“Emily—“  
“No,” I interrupt, spurred on by his scolding and exhausted tone. I know he doesn’t like arguing, and we hardly ever do, especially about anything important, but I need him to listen to me. “You can’t decide what’s safe for me and what isn’t. I’m aware that the world can go to shit in the blink of an eye. I understand that you’ve got baggage that you’d prefer not to hand off to me. But you’re not getting that I don’t care, or that I want to help you. I love you, Bucky. I’m a grown woman and I can make my own decisions. And I choose you.”  
“Emily…” he trails faintly. I wait for him to continue, but it’s just silence for a long time. “I don’t want to fight you on this.”  
“Then don’t.”  
“It’s—“ He breathes out and it sounds almost like a weak, defeated laugh. “I wish it were that simple.”  
“It is that simple,” I argue, tears pricking at the back of my eyes and my throat tightening uncomfortably as I choke back a frustrated sob.  
“Please, don’t do this.” His voice is broken, and I can tell that this debate is hurting him as well.  
“Fly to me. Come tonight.”  
“I can’t.”  
“But you can.” I know I’m being stubborn, but so is he. I just have to be the most stubborn.  
He sighs, for the ump-teenth time during this phone call. “I want to. Fuck, do I want to. I miss your face, your smile. I miss your skin…”  
“You can see me. You can feel me, if you’d just come home.” I’m not sure if he thinks I mean home as in New York, or home as in myself. Either way, it would bring him to me.  
There is another long silence. “I have to go,” he says.  
“No!” I cry out. “You can’t leave me like this.”  
“I’m not leaving you, I just—I need to think this over. I’ll call you later, okay?”  
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”  
“I love you.”  
“Love you, too.”  
The line goes dead.

Except he doesn’t get the chance to let me know.

“Emily?” Bucky’s voice is panicked, and there’s a lot of noise in the background. It’s not his usual number, either.  
“Buck, are you okay?”  
“Not really. They found me,” he almost sobs, voice breaking and fear flooding in.  
“Fuck, are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened? Where are you?”  
“There was an explosion, they thought I did it, but I was at the market, I swear to you—“  
“You didn’t do it. I know.”  
“Steve found me. And the German police.”  
“Where?”  
“He was in my apartment, he knew they were coming and he was trying to save me. But then the others found us, and this, I don’t know, fella in a black suit with—cat ears?—chased me down. I wrecked a motorcycle and a few cars, there was a pileup in a tunnel. Steve and Sam Wilson caught up to us and distracted Cat Suit and I was able to make a break and blend in. I’m in a phone booth right now, I threw my phone down a storm drain.”  
“Christ…” I whisper, barely able to take in everything he told me. I’m sure I’ll be hearing it on the news sometime today.  
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.  
“Come to me,” I say without thinking, without needing to.  
“Emily—“  
“They have no idea I exist. They don’t know you’ve been talking to me. You’ll be safe at my apartment.”  
“I can’t just—“  
“Yes, you can. We’ll be okay. I promise. Can you get on a plane to New York?”  
There is a long pause and I can hear the people on the street, tension and loud noises. “Alright. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”  
“Bucky, I love you. I’ll do anything for you.”  
“I love you, too,” he says. “Okay, I’m gonna try to flag a taxi to the airport. It would be faster to run across the rooftops with all the commotion down here on the street, but with Steve and the rest out looking for me, I can’t take the chance. If I can’t get a taxi, I guess I’ll just run.”  
“Run? The airport’s so far away,” I say, confused.  
“Not to me,” he says quickly, and then I remember the serum.  
“Right.”  
“What’s your address? I have a pen,” he says, and I tell him. “Okay. I gotta go. I won’t be able to talk to you again until I get to New York.”  
“Stay out of trouble.” There’s a pause and I just know that he’s got that look on his face. “Don’t get caught,” I correct myself.  
“See you in a little over… 12 hours, I guess.”  
“Be safe.”  
“I love you.”  
“I love you more.” The line disconnects, but my phone stays pressed against my skull.  
I stare at the wall for a good minute or two before I’m composed enough to get up. Bucky will be here by the end of the day. I don’t think I’ve ever been woken up to worse news in my life. Or… better news? I start to panic again, and I quickly begin to frantically clean my modest apartment. I vacuum, dust, start some laundry, straighten the kitchen. Shit, I even clean the leftovers out of the fridge and do the dishes. Anything to keep my hands and mind preoccupied. Eventually, the silence begins to slowly eat away at my sanity, and I have to turn on my record player. I pop in one of my records at random, unable to care or concentrate on which one it is. Soon, Sinatra starts singing, “I’ll never smile again,” and I let out a disgusted sound aimed at the cruel irony of the situation before backtracking to the record player and pulling it off to find a different one. This time I put a little more effort into choosing, and am serenaded by Elvis. His voice puts me at ease a little, and I continue straightening what’s left of my apartment.  
It’s spotless in three hours, and I still have another nine before Bucky is due at my door. I decide to run to the store to stock up my fridge to make sure there’s enough food for two to live off of for a while, but that only takes me another hour and a half. After spending the next thirty minutes unpacking the groceries and putting them away, I’m exasperated to realize that I still have another seven to wait.  
“This is torture,” I mutter to myself, picking up the book I had been reading in my spare time, Pride & Prejudice. Well, re-reading. It’s been one of my favorites for ages. But, inevitably, after only reading a couple of chapters, I quickly grow bored of it, likely from the anxiety combining with the repetition of the story. So I put it away and power up my Xbox, deciding to spend some time killing bandits and dragons. This de-stresses me slightly more, but when there’s still three hours to go, I’m unfortunately still pretty wound up.  
I flit about the living room, lighting a few candles and putting another record on, Glenn Miller this time. I draw myself a warm bubble bath, leaving the doors open so I could still hear the music. After adding some lavender oil to the bath water, I strip and step in, leaning my head back against the edge of the tub.  
Once the water grows tepid, I drain the tub and dry off, considerably less stressed than before. As much as I hate baths, I must admit that they’re pretty bearable when taken sparingly. I pull my hair out of its loose, messy bun and it falls past my shoulders, wavy and voluminous. I put on some clean pyjamas and return to the living room, checking the clock on the wall. Only an hour and forty-five minutes. Out of nothing but sheer boredom, I decide to pass the time by putting on my makeup, extra carefully, following the instructions of a beauty vlogger to the best of my abilities. It actually ends up looking pretty decent, and eats up most of the time. When there’s only thirty minutes left until eight o’clock, I decide to start making dinner for two: chicken and broccoli alfredo with linguini pasta.  
I’m interrupted in my cooking (as well as my slow dancing) by a hesitant knock at the door. I nearly trip over myself as I hurriedly wipe my chicken-y hands off on my apron and sprint to the front door. I open it, completely breathless in anticipation.  
He looks better than ever. I mean, despite the obvious stress in his face. His hair is shiny and slightly longer, he’s even more muscular, if that’s possible, and his scruff is ruggedly handsome. His gunmetal blue eyes find mine, and relief immediately floods into his face. His backpack slides from his shoulder and he drops it inside the door and scoops me up, bending to wrap his arms around my waist, immediately connecting his lips to mine and kicking the door closed behind him. I latch my arms around his neck and for a moment, there is only him, taking up all of my senses, all of my world.  
He finally puts me down, and says, “Moonlight Serenade?”  
I furrow my brows in confusion for a moment before I realize that it’s the song playing on the record player. I laugh and stretch up to kiss him again. I can’t get enough. “It’s a classic.”  
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers between kisses, pushing his fingers greedily through my hair. “You’re so beautiful, more than I remembered, and I didn’t think that was possible.”  
I feel my cheeks flushing immediately and I take a step back. “I hope you’re hungry.”  
“Always,” he smiles, glancing towards the kitchen. “It smells delicious. What is it? Chicken?”  
“Yeah, chicken and broccoli alfredo,” I confirm, and he groans in delight, making me laugh.  
It’s only when we’re eating at the table that the subject of his entire reason for coming to New York seems to become unavoidable.  
“Are you okay?” I ask, my eyes roving over his body, his face, his clothes, searching for any sign of anything being out of place or injured. But he looks pretty healthy.  
“Of course. A couple bumps and bruises and some minor scratches, but they’re healed now,” he assures me, pointing to a little tear in his sleeve with a tiny dark stain around the edge, although the skin peeking out from beneath looks perfectly fine.  
“Right. I forget you’re superhuman,” I smile, and he chuckles, wolfing down the rest of the contents of his plate in two bites. “So are you safe?”  
He nods, swallowing a big gulp of tea to wash down his meal. “Yes. I’m pretty certain. I had one eye over my shoulder the entire way here, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I don’t think I was followed. By either side.”  
“That’s great,” I say, relieved. I feel the weariness that had been suspended over me all day finally settle deep into my bones, and I rub my temples gingerly, resting my elbows on the table and closing my eyes.  
“Are you done?”  
I nod, and I hear him pick up my plate and carry it with his to the kitchen. The sink cuts on and I listen to him wash the plates and silverware before carefully setting them in the drying rack. I stand up and follow him, pulling some plastic Tupperware out of a cabinet and storing the leftovers in the fridge for later.  
“Thank you for dinner, it was delicious,” he murmurs against my hair, pressing a light kiss to my head and resting his hands against my hips. I lean forward and lean my head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his strong heart.  
“Of course, anytime. It’s the least I could do.”  
He leans back slightly and cranes his neck to look down at me, pushing his hips into mine in the process. His thumb hooks under my chin and his eyes bore into mine searchingly in one of the most intense gazes that I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. “Are you okay?”  
I smile up at him and nod assuredly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
His eyes grow slightly foggy and a worried, tired expression takes over his face once more. “It’s just a lot to take in. I know I’ve been a hassle—“  
“A guest,” I correct him.  
“A fugitive,” he says sternly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay with this.”  
“Bucky, I’m the one that wanted you to come here. Now stop fighting me on this. You’re already here, you might as well enjoy it,” I say with finality. He seems to finally understand that I’m not going to continue debating this with him, because he nods and drops his forehead to my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve had an exhausting day. Come on, let’s go to bed.”  
I lead him through the living room to my bedroom, and pull back the covers on my side. He strips off his jeans and shoes, dropping his hat and Henley shirt on the ground on top of them in a pile. He pulls off the long-sleeved shirt he had been wearing under the Henley and for the second time, I’m faced with his cybernetic arm. And it’s still just as intriguing as it was the first time I saw it.  
Wearing just his boxers, he climbs into bed next to me and wraps his arms snugly around my waist, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell so good. I love your place, by the way,” he compliments, and I smile to myself.  
“Thanks, Sarge.”  
He chuckles and I can practically hear him roll his eyes. “Shit, I haven’t been called that in decades.”  
“Technically, you still have the title, right?”  
“I guess you’re right,” he says.  
I turn over to face him and press a kiss to his lips, soft and gentle. He returns in eagerly, although still languorously and chastely. “I love you.”  
“I love you,” he says softly. He presses a long kiss to my forehead before pulling away and resting his against it in its place.  
It isn’t long before we’re both passed out, entangled together like we’ve always waited to be.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed reading part two! comments and feedback are always welcome! xo


End file.
